A Loaded Word
by unfold
Summary: There is one word typed on the latest of hundreds of blank word documents he has opened tonight. PostDuring Let Me Hear Your Balalaikas Ringing Out. Lit, clearly.


**Do you think that I've changed?  
I swear I never tried.  
Memory is a terrible thing  
When you use it right.  
(Away by Kathleen Edwards)**

There is one word typed on the latest of hundreds of blank word documents he has opened tonight. One word. A loaded word. A word so unfalteringly true. A simple word. Five letters. One syllable. He doesn't say it out loud for free that it would cement the idea. But, his lips form the word's vowel before he closes his laptop fiercely.

The word remains. Scrolling across a marquee that has appeared on the other side of his eyelids. Playing like a melody, blatant and predictable, in his mind. He hears it in her voice. He hears her saying it with that soft, dejected tone she had used earlier that night.

The word remains. Because, he thinks wryly, it is simply being true to its definition.

The laptop is open again, though he doesn't remember doing this. His middle finger hovers over the backspace key as he considers the word once more. He tries to decipher once more what the implication behind this word is. Why he chose to type this word, of all the others in his head at the time. Why his mind grasped onto this word with 22 different definitions, all of which seem so sickeningly fitting for his present state. Except for definitions 20 and 21. (He is not calm, he is not allayed.)

The word stares back at him from the white screen. The cursor blinking mockingly next to it. No punctuation, does this mean the thought continues from here? No. It means that punctuation would be too final for this word. That this word transcends punctuation, has no need for it.

He cannot get rid of it. It is daring him. Saying, Erase me. Delete me. Pretend I never happened. Pretend I mean absolutely nothing. This is, once again, in her voice. Once again in her delicately fragile, childlike voice.

Relief floods through him when there is a faint knock on his hotel room door. He sets the laptop aside and goes to answer it.

The relief disappears instantly. And she stands there, as if it were easy. She shrugs her shoulders and says, "Uh…Luke."

He nods, stepping aside to let her in. "So. How did things work out after I left?"

She sits on the edge of his bed. "Not well. He wanted to leave, but I told him I didn't want to go. He left me cab money. I came here. He thinks I blame him. But, it's not his fault that I'm like this. It's mine. I wasn't blaming him."

He sits next to her, probably too close. He can feel the warmth of her body and knows that it's too close. She shifts in her place and he knows that it's too close. He doesn't move, though. He watches her hands as they pull awkwardly at her sleeves.

She whispers, "Have I….I mean, I know I have. Changing hurts. I didn't do this on purpose, you know. It happened. I didn't want it to, but it did. I can't even remember what I used to be like…" She trails off and he watches her tears like rain on a windshield.

"I can. Remember, that is. What you were like. Before." He hates the fragmented way he is speaking.

She turns her head slightly to look at him. A tear runs sideways and lands on her nose. His thumb quickly and absently wipes it away, neither of them reacts to it. She says, "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He smiles, softly, gently.

"Tell me."

He breathes deeply, in and out. A piece of her hair flutters. (Too close.) "I can't…."

"Please. Tell me."

And it is there in his mind: A vivid landscape of memories. A series of images, tinged gray and black. A feeling so intense that he closes his eyes and finds his hands gripping the edge of the bed hard.

He tells her, "You were strong. You were…everything. You always told me to do more with myself. You always told me that school was important. You were happy. You loved your mother so much that it hurt for me sometimes, because you had a mother who cared and was there. You were dedicated to whatever you were doing. You weren't so jaded. You wouldn't let me or anyone stand in your way. You were…you."

He closes his eyes again and sees her: Smiling, bright red apple cheeks and a pure white backdrop. Snow, winter, innocence, a warm mouth against skin, a short ragged breath, an unnamed feeling that he would later be able to recognize.

And then again: A broken, cold stare. A mouth half open. Words hanging somewhere between them, dissipating, vanishing. Words forced out with a heavy sigh. Breath like smoke, pushed out of their lungs. The stabbing cold, the ten second silence. The unnamed feeling from a year ago, voiced.

When his eyes open again, he finds her looking down at her lap. "I'm sorry." But, the apology, he knows, is not for him. Or anyone in particular.

His eyes fall on the laptop, discarded on the other side of the bed. Even turned away from him, he can see the word. She follows his glance to the computer. She reaches out for it, saying, "Were you working on the sequel before I got here?"

He stops her, grabbing her by the wrist. Not wanting her to see that singular word that is waiting on the screen. She looks at him in surprise and then looks at his fingers. He can feel her pulse. He can feel her bones moving gracefully beneath her skin as she tries to remove herself from his grasp.

"Sorry. I just don't like people reading things before I get a chance to edit them."

"Of course. I understand. Sorry." She is holding her wrist in her other hand.

"Did I hurt you?"

She shakes her head and then instantly lets go of the wrist. "No, uh, not at all." She smiles. It is weak and forced.

She is closer than before. Maybe this happened when he grabbed her by the wrist. Maybe it forced her to turn the six inches between them into two.

He asks her with the same steady voice he used the day before, "Are you nervous?"

This time she says, "No." And kisses him. Her hands are fists against his chest when he pulls her tightly against him, his hands at the small of her back. Her mouth has the faint taste of liquor being overpowered by cinnamon.

Another image is playing for him now: Her hair in soft curls, a hesitant apology, a false explanation, stars in her eyes, the moon gleaming on the white of her teeth, the light touch of her lips, his arms pulling her up and closer to him. The desire to stay.

Now, she pulls away from him. A hand being brought up to her lips. She is frightened. She says hurriedly, "Oh my God."

He tries to be kind, because this is the person he has become, and says gently, "Déjà vu, huh?"

He regrets saying this, though. Immediately, another flash of memory occurs, but this is all he sees: Her, beautiful and untouched. Her, before.

She repeats herself, "Oh my God. I….Jess." She looks up at him, helpless, hoping he has answers.

"Rory…" He doesn't have any answers, she crumbles.

"We can't do this again. I don't want….You said we were supposed to be together, two years ago, you said that. Do you think that now? Right now, are you thinking that this was meant to happen?" She is in some sort of frenzy, wringing her hands, and pushing her hair back obsessively.

A sideways glance to the laptop, a darting of eyes around her face. And, finally, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. After a year, he had been happy again. He had been happy when he came here, when he saw her for the first time in two years. Was he back at the beginning now? Was this cycle starting all over again? He wouldn't let it.

He purses his lips and shakes his head. "No, this was just…a moment of weakness, for both of us." He watches her eyes. They dim just a little, but not entirely. "It meant nothing."

She nods her head. "Okay. I should be going." And with a hand on the doorknob, turning it slowly, and watching him on the bed, she says, "Thanks. For everything."

And she is gone with such finality.

He reaches for his laptop and looks at the word. Despite everything, it is there. It says, You're a goddamn liar.

He looks at the word letter by letter, listening to it deride him. He looks at the word, letting its meaning overwhelm him completely:

still


End file.
